A Boon
HEN Parliament was come to an end in Gloucester, and on the night before the day that the court set out for London, Stephen craved a boon of his King.
Richard sat on his bed's edge in his shirt, humming a tune and picking it out on his lute with:—
“Went it not this way, Etienne?” or “Was 't thus?” or “A plague on 't, but I 'll have it yet!” And then would he begin again.
The squire was setting forth the morrow's riding-coat and gloves and furred hood by the light of a cresset, for the start was early. A pot of charcoal stood by the window. The night was cold, and Richard, as he played on the lute, tucked his bare feet under him.
“My lord,” said Stephen, on a sudden, coming across to the bed and kneeling down, “I 've a grace to ask of thee.”
“Thou!” cried Richard, throwing away the lute. “Here 's a marvel!” and he leaned out and flung his arms, linked, around Stephen's neck, and so peered, mischievous, into his face. “The others are at it all day long, but when hast thou asked aught of me? Be sure 't is granted or ever 't is spoke, sweet friend.”
“Natheless, my heart doth not so assure me, sweet lord,” made answer Stephen, very sad. “Belike I 'm froward, but I do believe thou lovest me dear, and for that cause 't will go hard with thee or thou grant this boon.”
Richard wrinkled his brow. “What a riddle is here?” quoth he. “I 'll love thee, and yet prove a churl to thy desire?”
Stephen looked steadily beyond him for a moment before he began:—
“Is it fitting, beau sire, that one so young and fair and helpless as Calote should go alone through this realm on perilous and haply hopeless business?”
“Do not many so?” asked Richard uneasily.
“They are but seldom young, my lord, nor never so fair. They go to a shrine to do penance for sins; they are old in the world's ways.”
There was a pause, then Richard broke forth hotly:—
“If 't is not good that she go forth on this emprise, if 't is not true that the common folk is strong enough to put down the nobles, wherefore didst not thou prevent me when I gave consent? Thou art older than I. Is this thy loyauté, to let thy King play the fool?”
“Oh, my lord!” said Stephen, and hung his head; but not for shame of himself. Presently he looked up into the eyes of the sulky boy and spoke on: “I do not know if the people be strong enough and wise enough to do this thing. I do not know the people. I have lived among courtiers since I was a little lad and my father died. But if they do fail, my lord, the world will but wag as it did afore. Thine is not the blame; thou art too young to bear blame for 't; 't is the people that will be blamed.”
Richard flushed slowly, and looked away.
“But I will not be laughed at neither,” he said, with quivering lip. “I wish I had not given her my hunting-horn.”
“Trust me, sire,” said Stephen, “if the people do ever rise up in England against the oppression of the nobles, 't will be no laughing matter,—even though in the end it fail. And mayhap Calote knoweth that she speaketh,—mayhap 't will win.”
“I 'll not tell any one I gave her leave to use the King's name,” half-whispered Richard, shamefaced and scarlet; “nor must thou.”
“Of surety, no; 't would spoil all, to tell,” Stephen assented, but he was so filled with his own thoughts and how he should ask the boon he had to ask, that he failed to see how the King was ashamed.
Richard gave a quick sigh of relief. “Nay,—we 'll not tell,” he repeated. “'T would not be wise for Calote's sake to tell.” Yet his cheeks did not cool.
“Oh, my lord, and my King, this that I would ask of thee is likewise for Calote's sake,” Stephen cried. “Thou dost know well, Calote is my love and my lady. I have tried, but I cannot love no other damosel. And now she is going out to strange peril alone. My soul crieth shame to me, sire; shame, for that I stay behind a-living easefully. Is this knightly demeanour? Is this to be a defender of ladies?”
Richard's hand closed tight upon Stephen's collar, as if he felt him slipping away and would keep him.
“My liege,” the squire pleaded, “my lord, let me go follow my love!”
The King sat up very straight on the bed; there was fright in his eyes. It seemed almost he could not understand that he heard.
“And leave me?” he said at last, in amaze.
Stephen made no answer, and, after astonishment, anger came into Richard's face.
“A peasant maid!” he cried. “How am I scorned!” And then, “I hate thee!—I hate, hate, hate thee!”
He pushed the squire from him. He tore his linen shirt open at the throat and sprang to the floor.
“Hear me!” Stephen begged.
“Nay; I 've heard enough!” screamed Richard, his teeth chattering 'twixt wrath and cold. “Go, an thou wilt! Go now; now! I 'll take Robert de Vere to my love. I 'll make him thrice an earl and give him my jewelled buckle. He 'll not leave me so cruel.”
“In pity, sire,” protested Stephen; “the night is cold; thou 'lt take an ague standing on the stone floor.”
“And if I do, what 's that to thee? Thou dost not love me!” shouted the King, his voice breaking in a sob. “Nay, do not touch me! I 'll not to bed,—I 'll not to bed! I 'll stand all night and shiver. Let be!—Ah, woe, harrow!”
He beat at Stephen with both hands, wildly, when the squire would have wrapped a mantle round him.
“My lord, thy gentlemen will hear.”
“I hope they may!” cried Richard, hoarse with screaming. “Mayhap I 'll die of the cold, and then they 'll behead thee for a traitor, and quarter thee, and hang thee up over London Bridge,—and I 'll laugh.”
Thereupon he did, noisily, with tears.
Stephen looked on him for a space in silence and then went out at the door and left him alone.
When he came again, bringing wine, spiced and honeyed, in a cup, Richard's mood had changed. He lay on the bed, weeping.
“Here 's good clarré will warm thee, sire,—drink!” coaxed Stephen gently.
“No!” said the King, strangling in his sobs, “No!—take away!” and struck the cup out of Stephen's hand so that the wine flew all about. Then on a sudden he was in the squire's arms, shivering, clinging, crying:—
“Etienne, Etienne, methought thou didst love me!”
“And do I not so, my lord?”
“Then stay with me. I am the King. What 's a peasant maid?”
“What 's knighthood, my lord, what 's honour?”
“Is no knighthood in following after a peasant,” sobbed Richard. “Such-like maids be for pleasure of the noblesse. Robert de Vere told me.”
“I do never pattern my demeanour after his Lordship of Oxford,” said Stephen coldly.
“When I was a little lad, they sang me tales of how all the world did love to do the bidding of the King,‘ said Richard; ’but it is not true. O me, it is not true! I hate Calote!”
“Yet 't is she that puts body and soul in peril to do thee service.”
“I 'd liefer she stayed at home, and wedded thee peaceable.”
“God wot, so would I!” Stephen exclaimed. “But she will not.”
“I 'll bid her stay,” cried Richard; “and I 'm the King.”
“The King is a truthteller, my lord; he may not give his word and take it again. The King is pattern to his people and servant likewise; doth not the Vision say this?”
“I 'm sick of the Vision,” whined Richard, and clung more close to his squire. “Thou 'lt not go! Say thou 'lt not go! How alone shall I be, and unloved, if thou go. Etienne, I want thee to stay with me.”
“And how alone will she be, that peasant maid that I have chose to make my lady,‘ said Stephen. ’Think, sire! a kingdom is no plaything. Be sure Christ Jesus, of all men the Judge, will not let thee off of thy devoir to the least man or maid born in England,—when the last day cometh. And when thou and Calote stand face to face, and the great angel a-blowing his trump, and all the world rising up fearful out of its grave, wilt thou say to the Judge: 'Christ, King of Heaven, this was a maid that went out to do me service. My kingdom was full of a quarrel 'twixt peasant and noblesse, 'twixt monk and friar, and merchant. There was no man but had a grievance against his brother. And this maid said, I will bring love out of this hate, and truth out of this lying; the King and the peasant shall kiss the kiss of peace.' And wilt thou say again, 'I had knights and nobles in my court to guard me well and to do my will, O Christ! but I would not give one of all these to go follow the maid and shield her from peril in her lonely pilgrimage. I would not let go even a squire to be her body-guard. If she hath come to harm, it is by me, and in my cause.'”
“No, no, no!” whispered Richard very piteous; “I will not do so.” He had ceased his weeping, but now and again a sob shook him. “Etienne, I will be a true King. Ah, who will learn me to be true when thou art gone!”
“The wisest men in the kingdom are at thy bidding, King Richard,” Stephen answered him gravely.
“But they are too wise,” the boy complained. “They weary me. I love thee best.”
“Natheless, 't were scarce fitting that Master John Wyclif, or Lord Percy of Northumberland, be sent to follow Calote in my stead,” quoth Stephen, half-mischievous.
The King laughed a tearful little laugh. But presently he said:—
“Calote flouteth thee. She will not let thee go with her.”
“She shall not know,” Stephen answered. “Will my lord hear what I purpose? 'T is no wonted adventure.”
“Yea,” Richard agreed. “But do thou first cover me in bed, and give me a tippet; I 'm cold. Is there any of the clarré left in the cup?”
Thereupon Stephen covered him and gave him the cup to drink, and after told him what he purposed to do,—a long tale.
“O Etienne, what a true lover art thou!” sighed Richard. “But I shall miss thee sore.”
“And I 'll lodge in poor men's cots, and take them to be my friend, and learn if they be strong enough to overcome the nobles.”
“I 'd rather be thou than the King,” Richard said wistfully. “Here 's a merry adventure, and 't is dull in the Palace at Westminster. Tell on!”
So they spoke peacefully together, and at the last the King fell fast asleep, and Stephen kissed his hand very soft, and left him.